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Hounds’ teeth.
He’d bloody-well botched that interview or whatever one wanted to call the ill-fated conversation. Served him right for leaping to conclusions and bending his ear toward tattle. He’d witnessed Fluffer-Muffer sleeping on Lieutenant Masterson’s bed with his own eyes.
You did ask her to explain herself.
Yes, after asking point-blank if she was Masterson’s mistress.
A groan scrambled around the back of his throat.
It was to Mercy’s credit that she hadn’t slapped his face and left the premises that very afternoon. He’d learned, of course, her dedication to Arabelle and Bellamy wouldn’t permit her to abandon them, even if she’d wanted to spite him. And it wasn’t as if employment opportunities were prolific for young women—particularly without a letter of reference.
What was more, according to her own testimony, she’d been without funds.
He’d rectified that wrong posthaste.
Mercy had only graced him with an infinitesimal nod when he’d paid her back wages and reimbursed her expenses the next day after examining the ledgers. Meticulous and detailed, she’d accounted for every pence spent. He’d not have been able to stretch those monies to the degree she had.
In truth, Miss Mercy Feathers was turning out to be a much more complex female than he’d anticipated. In short, he wasn’t certain what to do with her and fully intended to grovel if he must and ask his mother to take over supervising the governess.
After all, Mother knew precisely what every other servant in the household was up to at any given minute. She’d dealt with governesses for her daughters. Surely, it made sense that she would take on the responsibility of Miss Feathers too.
Mayhap his mother and sisters would introduce Mercy to London when they toted Arabelle and Bellamy about town. Surely governesses accompanied their charges on such excursions. For he hadn’t a doubt that Mother would delight in furnishing the girls with new wardrobes.
Yes, yes, indeed. That was precisely what Ronan would do.
Trailing the length of his scar with his forefinger, he cursed inwardly.
Except—blast it to Hades—he knew in his gut that Mother wouldn’t alleviate him of the responsibility. And there was the deuced rub. For whatever unfathomable reason, his lovable but sometimes immensely bothersome family was conspiring against him in this matter. Probably nothing more than very poorly disguised attempts to keep him in England.
Ronan didn’t like not feeling in command of himself—his emotions, his purpose, his future, his actions. Regardless, he strongly suspected every last one of those was no longer under his control.
Heaving a sigh worthy of Marissa’s dramatics, Ronan eyed the basket from whence peeved rustling sounds emerged regularly for the past several minutes.
Slicing Mercy a side-eyed glance, he was relieved to see she hadn’t seemed to notice his sigh. Or if she had, she chose to do what any servant worth their salt did. Ignore their employer's indiscretions, idiosyncrasies, and failings.
As she had throughout the journey, Fluffer-Muffer made a harsh, drawn-out disgruntled noise—somewhere between an annoyed yowl and an infuriated hiss. As if the cat wanted to ensure the humans understood just how inconvenienced and put upon she was for having to endure the journey stuffed in a hamper like a sausage in a too-small casing.
Since the contentious cat favored him more than either of his new and still leery and suspicious wards, the only vacant spot in the coach after he’d handed Mercy and the girls in early this morning had been next to the miffed feline’s basket.
Had he been alone in the coach, Ronan would’ve stretched his legs and propped them on the opposite seat. At the last inn, while the team was exchanged, he had stretched his legs and taken several turns around the courtyard. Nonetheless, his muscles had protested for the past hour about the immobility.
Across the coach, Mercy presented the quintessence of decorous behavior against the backdrop of the claret-colored squabs. Nothing in her mien hinted at the spitfire who had so soundly put him in his place but a few days ago.
Which was the real Mercy Feathers?
Perhaps a mélange of both?
She wore the same unremarkable black bonnet and gray cloak he’d first met her in. With her hair and eyes, she would be resplendent in greens and corals, blues and teals. Except, he supposed, governesses weren’t permitted anything brighter than a staid dark blue.
Pity that.
Flanking her, Arabelle and Bellamy slept on, their heads resting on Mercy’s thighs. One of her gloved hands rested on each girl’s shoulder in what could only be described as a maternal gesture. Whenever the girls stirred, she idly smoothed her palms over their backs in another nurturing motion.
The instinct was so natural that Ronan doubted she was even aware she calmed his wards. If ever a woman was born to be a mother, it was Miss Mercy Feathers.
Where in God’s holy name had that thought come from?
The tip of Mercy’s little finger on her left hand peeked through her glove. Ronan was no fashion expert, but he’d wager his mother and sisters would have a fit of the vapors at the condition of her obviously hand-knitted—and mended—gloves.
